The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 21

  Lady Jane was another story altogether. He looked her full in the face as she passed him by, and never had he seen such an unhappy bride. Her countenance was both angry and haughty. When informed by her mother, Lady Frances, that she was to marry Dudley’s son, she had flatly refused. Not only was Guilford Dudley a commoner, but he was only a fourth son and of no account whatsoever, whereas Jane was royal. The only imaginable thing he had to recommend him in her eyes was that he was Protestant, but it was obvious to the astute Jane that her husband-to-be did not share her fanaticism, and barely paid lip service to religion at all. She thought she could see it all clearly; Dudley had seen to it that Edward raised her father to the eminence of Duke of Suffolk; a favor was owed. And she was to be the favor!

  “No,” she had said. “I would rather die than marry Guilford Dudley.”

  “And I say that you shall!” cried Lady Frances. She had tried to beat her daughter into submission; when that did not work, she withheld food. Jane had said that she would rather die than marry Guilford Dudley; very well then, she should starve to prove her point.

  And so had begun the war of attrition. Frances was not to be gainsaid, and Jane had, in the end, no choice but to submit to her mother’s will. That she had held out as long as she could was evident; her face was certainly not that of a healthy young woman. Her cheeks were drawn, her skin sallow, there were dark rings under her eyes, and the arms, where they were visible below her sleeves, were stick-thin. Dudley believed that Lady Jane meant what she said, but she was evidently not ready to die just yet. And so here she was, marrying his son. Thank heaven that he still had one son left unmarried. John was married to that virago’s daughter, Anne Seymour; Ambrose was betrothed to Elizabeth Tailboys; young Robert was married to Amy Robsart; there was only Guilford left.

  Once again, both his friends and his enemies had missed the significance of the fact that Jane must marry a Dudley. But then, they did not know what he knew.

  As he sat in the church about to witness the marriage of his son, Dudley cast his mind back to the day that Girolamo Cardano had drawn up Edward’s horoscope. All the signs had pointed to death. Cardano was a scientist, but he was sensitive to Edward’s feelings; he had not wanted the boy to know. Also, Cardano, despite Dudley’s assurances, still feared the prediction of the king’s death. The Italian was not an English subject; did the treason laws still apply to him? Finally, Dudley had convinced Cardano that he must know the truth. And the truth was plain to see on Edward’s face; it took no seer to predict his death. Still, it was advisable to have confirmation.

  In the end, they had compromised, the doctor and the statesman. Cardano had drawn up two versions of the king’s stars and planets. One presaged a long, healthy life and a successful reign; the other, the truth, predicted that Edward has less than a year to live, and that disaster awaited his realm.

  Not if I can help it, thought Dudley. He had paid Cardano handsomely for his silence, but had still entertained thoughts of having his throat slit on a dark road between Calais and Pavia. But in the end, Dudley had decided not; if it was bruited that the man who had predicted the king’s recovery had been found murdered, questions would be asked. Perhaps it was better to take a risk and trust the Italian, who seemed content with his pay and was eager to get back to Italy.

  Dudley had told Edward of his plan to use the false predictions to buy them time. For if Edward truly was to die, a plan there must be. Dudley took off the mental shelf of his mind the plan that he had devised when it had seemed as if Edward would succumb to the smallpox.

  Edward had taken the prediction of his early death calmly and philosophically. He was a boy in ten thousand, Dudley had thought; nay, a boy in a million, as he had often said to himself. And then suddenly he realized another thing…it was that if Edward all but regarded Dudley as a father, as he suspected the boy did, he also regarded Edward as a son. And in doing so, had grown to love him. The lump in his throat was so thick that he could not speak; Edward did not notice the tears that had welled in his mentor’s eyes.

  Edward matter-of-factly arose from the bed, walked to his writing table, and pulled out a parchment. Its writing was much scratched through and there were blobs of ink on it as though the writer had paused long in thought over some of the wording it contained. He handed it to Dudley without a word.

  Dudley took the parchment and at first only skimmed it; then his eyes widened and he read the document thoroughly, twice through. When he finally lifted his eyes, he was too stunned to speak. It was January, and the only sound in the room was the crackling and snapping of the fire.

  As Dudley hesitiated, Edward said, “As you can see, I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”

  Dudley was shocked beyond speech; finally he cleared his throat and croaked, “And you have done this on your own? None knows of it?”

  “None,” said Edward solemnly. He sighed. “Your Grace, the one consolation if die I must, which I will not question or regret since it is God’s will, is that I will be leaving behind me an England free from the yoke of Rome. That was my father’s wish, and I must do all I can to ensure that his will is done.”

  Dudley regarded the parchment once again; at the top was written, in Edward’s well-designed hand…all the Tudor children possessed the capacity for graceful, stylish handwriting…the title ‘My Own Device For The Succession To The Throne of England’. “But…” he croaked, his voice broke, he cleared his throat again; “it would mean…”

  Edward nodded his head gravely. “It would mean disinheriting both my sisters, barring them from the throne. Yes, I know. Beyond that, it would mean defying an Act of Parliament, and in reality if not in intent, disobedience of my father’s will. I am aware of all of this. That is why I will need your help, dear Father.”

  Dudley stared at Edward in absolute awe. Edward had never before called him father; and the document itself! “And you have done this all on your own?” He was repeating himself; he must get ahold of himself. This document was an answer to prayer.

  Edward shifted in his bed; his body was covered with sores from so much lying abed, but he was not well enough to leave it. He grimaced in pain, searching for a more comfortable position.

  “I cannot allow my sister Mary to ascend the throne of England,” said Edward. “I am sorry for it, for she is the rightful heir; none knows that better than I. But she will undo all that we have done to reform the faith of this country. That I cannot tolerate.”

  Dudley considered Edward’s words; this was exactly the argument that he had planned to put before the king. And now here was Edward saying it to him!

  “But what of Elizabeth?” asked Dudley. The girl was approaching twenty and too clever by half; should she be named heir instead of Mary, she was after all a professed Protestant, or willing to pretend to be so, he would have a tiger by the tail and no mistake. She would not be as amenable to guidance as dear Edward!

  Edward sighed again. “I love my sisters,” he said. “But Mary is a papist and cannot be allowed to succeed. Elizabeth presents a different problem. She is the daughter of an adulteress, who was convicted by English law of treason and executed. She is also a bastard, cannot be allowed to ascend the throne.”

  Dudley drew breath to speak, but Edward lifted his hand to forestall him. “I know what you are about to say. But it seems to me that my father altered laws this way and that simply to suit his whim of the moment. And while I understand his reasons, that does not change the fact that all laws aside, the issue is so convoluted that none can say with any certainty whether Elizabeth is truly legitimate or not, in law. I am aware that my father and I, if he were alive, might disagree on this point. Although the Lord knows that he made both his daughters illegitimate himself…but he is not alive, and I alone must judge.”

  Dudley felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. No Mary, and no Elizabeth!

  “Now, as you know,” continued Edward, “it was my father’s express wish that should his direct li
ne ever fail, and I fear that it will fail with me, that under no circumstances was the succession to devolve upon my Aunt Margaret’s heirs. No Scot shall ever rule England! The people simply would not have it. This we know, and my father was wise, even though Margaret was the elder sister, to bar her line from the throne. No, his instructions are explicit; should his line fail, the throne was to devolve upon the heirs of his sister, Mary Brandon.”

  “That is so,” agreed a stunned Dudley.

  “My cousin Frances has not borne a child for nigh on six years,” said Edward.

  “That is indeed so, Your Grace.”

  “And even so, I know my father would not wish the throne to go to a female, if such can possibly be prevented.” He laughed, a rasping, wheezy sound; it seemed that he was about go into another paroxysm of coughing, but he did not. “I am living proof of that!” He knew the story of his father’s wives and his valiant attempt to avoid a female succession. He had moved heaven and earth to get Edward, and Edward knew it. King Henry had died confident that he had accomplished his purpose, and that his beloved son would grow to manhood, marry, beget a male heir (hopefully with less difficulty!) and the throne would be saved from bastards and females. But alas, thought Edward, with the pang of regret that always smote him when he thought of his betrothal to the French princess that now would never likely come to fruition, that plan was now moot at best.

  “All of this is true,” said Dudley. “But as you say, Frances has no son and has not borne a child in six years.” He regarded the parchment. “What you have done here,” he lifted the parchment reverently, “is akin to a miracle. It changes everything.”

  For Edward’s Device For The Succession stated unequivocally that the throne of England should devolve, should the king die without issue, to the male heirs of the Lady Frances Brandon Grey, Marchioness of Dorset and Duchess of Suffolk, and barring that, to the male heirs of her daughters; Jane, Catherine and Mary, in order of their birth.

  “But in order to have male heirs, the girls must be married,” whispered Dudley in awe.

  Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Just so,” he said. “Then we must get them married.”

  So now Dudley sat in the beautiful Abbey of Westminster, all bedecked with flowers, and witnessed the marriage of his son, Guilford, to Jane Grey. It had been easy to bring Edward around to whom Jane should marry; the boy loved him, had created him Duke of Northumberland, that he may be more worthy to serve and mentor a king; it was part of his reward that the heir apparent to the throne should marry his son, and produce an heir…a son who would one day be king of England.

  Dudley observed the service as it progressed; the portion of the marriage ceremony in which the priest asked, “Does anyone know of any impediment?” came and went and no one had answered; then came the asking of the bride and groom if they would freely take the other in matrimony; he had known a bad moment when Jane at first had not answered, but a stiff poke in the ribs from Lady Frances had prompted an indignant “I will.”

  There was still much work to be done, but with those words, he knew that he had won. Dudley seed would that very evening reside in Tudor belly, and soon Jane would give birth to a son who would one day be king of England. His revenge on the Tudors was complete; and even if he had used poor, innocent Edward as the instrument of his vengeance, he felt, at that moment at least, neither pang nor qualm. Checkmate indeed!

  Chapter 32

  “My faith and my religion are those held by the whole of Christendom, formerly confessed [practiced] by this kingdom under the late king, my father, until you altered them with your laws.”

  - Mary Tudor

  Greenwich Palace, June 1553

  The soft moaning from the bed entered Dudley’s dream; as with all his dreams, everything was disjointed and nothing made sense. First he was on a horse, riding hell-for-leather toward some elusive, unknown goal; then suddenly it was he who was being pursued, and somehow he knew that he was riding for his life. But to no avail; for in the way that dreams often do, for some reason he was no longer on his horse, but on a high, wooden platform. His hands were bound and he was in nothing but his shirt, which was dirty, ragged and torn. He looked out over a crowd of people who were strangely silent; and then he saw where the dreadful moaning was coming from. It was his lady wife, her arms outstretched, her eyes pleading…and then something, a flash of light, caught his eye. On the straw beside him was an axe, reflecting the light of the sun, almost blinding him. At that moment, for the first time, he knew with a dreadful certainty that he was doomed. The icy fear began in the pit of his stomach and grew like a cancer until it reached his very fingertips. The dream was so real, his fear so intense, that it awakened him.

  And there was Edward, moaning in his pain and delirium. So it had been the boy’s moans that had penetrated his dream. The king could no longer hold his food; his body, especially his feet and legs, were as swollen as though he were dropsical. He might very well be so; his doctors were mystified as to what ailed him. This malady was far more, far worse, than just the lung-rot; it was as if the king were putrefying from the inside out. His wasted frame was covered in the sores that plagued him when he was conscious. The only mercy that could be shown him was to keep him in a drugged sleep with constant doses of poppy syrup. But while in such a state he moaned continually, and sometimes, although he seemed unaware of it, he would cry out.

  Dudley sat with his head in his hands. Everything up to this point had gone exactly as he had planned. All had seemed fair fit to succeed, and now this. He had thought God was on his side, but it was difficult to reconcile that Edward’s death might be imminent with the fact that if Edward died now, it would completely wreck all their careful plans. His own feelings for the boy aside, what of England? The Protestant Reformation in England was all but complete. The astounding concept of one’s salvation being assured by faith alone had nullified the intercessionary role of the church; the downgrading of the Catholic sacraments had substantially reduced the power of the clergy; and the utter denial of the miracle of transubstantiation had all but destroyed the superstitious rituals of the Mass. Was all of this to have been for nought because of the death of one boy, and the ascension to the throne of England of the papist rock that was Mary Tudor?

  A moan involuntarily escaped his own lips at the thought.

  “Are you there, Father?” whispered a raspy voice.

  Edward! He had not been sensible for days, although Dudley had been careful to bruit it abroad that the king was much improved. The truth simply would not do.

  Dudley arose and hastened to Edward’s side. “I am here, Your Grace,” he said. Was this to be the end, then? If only Edward could have held on long enough for Jane to bear Guilford’s child! But it had been less than a month since their wedding. Not enough time even to know if she had conceived.

  “May I have a sup of wine?” Edward was struggling to heave himself up onto his pillows.

  “Oh, Your Grace!” cried Dudley on a sob. Completely forgetting himself he said, “Oh, my dearest child, let me help you!” He looped his arms, strong and sure, around Edward’s and gently heaved him up. The boy weighed no more than a bird. He settled Edward and then reached for the wine cup on the table beside the bed. He had almost placed it in the boy’s hands when he realized that it held the foul-smelling, blood-streaked mucus that Edward had coughed up. Another golden cup held traces of poppy syrup; even though he feared Edward’s death whilst under his care, Dr. Wendy had relented and dosed the boy early. Dudley seized his own cup, half full now, and gave it to Edward. That he wanted to drink was a very good sign.

  Edward smiled, but it was a death’s head grin. He was so pale, so drawn and wasted, the purple smudges under his eyes a testament to his extreme illness. “I would dearly like to have some bread and bacon,” he said.

  This was altogether too much for Dudley; he broke down and wept.

  “Dearest Father,” said Edward in a whisper. His throat was very sore from coughing and from the
noxious matter that he had brought up with such regularity over the past few days; it was because of this that none believed that he could live.

  And now the boy wanted bread and bacon!

  Dudley wiped his eyes and said, “Forthwith, Your Grace; you rest and leave all to me.” It was the middle of the night; he would fetch the food himself if needs be. He ran to the door of the king’s chamber and shouted “Page!”

  Instantly a young boy appeared, his clothing disheveled, rubbing sleepy eyes and evincing a jaw-splitting yawn. Startled by the order of food for the king, he bolted on his young legs and was gone. The tears welled up once again in Dudley’s eyes. The boy was just Edward’s age, and so hale and healthy…it wasn’t fair! Satisfied that the order would be carried out speedily, Dudley turned back to face Edward.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “You have given us all a right scare these past days.”

  Edward shifted in his bed, stifling a groan. “I know it well,” he replied. “Father, it is time. We must make my Device For the Succession known to the Council. And we must make it into my will. Nay,” he said, in his hoarse, raspy whisper, holding up his hand to forestall Dudley’s next words. “I am not afraid to die. But I am very much afraid of leaving this world knowing that my sister will lead my realm back into the superstitious darkness that is the Church of Rome. I fear even more those who pretend to uphold the new religion, whilst secretly keeping the rituals of the old. The time has come. We must act.”

  “But…” Dudley waved an expansive hand at the door, indicating the royal order that was being carried out for food to be brought.

  “A temporary respite at best,” said the pallid death’s head. “It is time.”

  Dudley sat staring at Edward, but not really seeing him. The boy was right. Edward’s uncle, Prince Arthur, had also died aged fifteen; his half-brother, Fitzroy, had died at seventeen. The onset of manhood seemed as if it were a dangerous time for Tudor males.